Death Drop Read online

  The last of this group was moving around the next turn. I went back down the passageway. I reached the plastic trees with fake pomegranates. I hid behind a tree trunk.

  I heard Smythe’s voice in the passage behind the trees.

  “Great acting job you did today.”

  In response, a shrill laugh rang out.

  Then a frail, quaking voice—the voice of the white-haired old lady who’d fainted. “I should be on the stage. I fooled ’em all!”

  The old lady’s words puzzled me. And what was she doing here? She’d left by taxi. The sales clerk had seen her go.

  The fake pomegranates shook. Smythe and the old woman were pushing through to the main passageway. Smythe’s hand almost hit me in the face.

  He didn’t see me. But I saw him—and the old lady.

  It wasn’t an old lady though.

  It was Sherry Moore.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sherry was the fainter.

  It had been an act. A convincing one. I’d believed it. So had the guard. So had everyone else.

  But Smythe hadn’t been there. He’d left, on the pretext of finding a cab for the sick old lady. Who wasn’t sick or old.

  Smythe had gone to the portrait. With no one around, he had removed it. Hung a copy in its place.

  That’s what he’d started to remind Sherry. I was the one who…

  Before Sherry sharply cut him off.

  Why steal the portrait?

  I didn’t have to be a brainiac to figure that out. Sherry was in financial trouble. She would sell the portrait. For a Rossetti, some black-market art dealer would pay a huge amount of money.

  Posing as the sick old lady, Sherry had taken off in a taxi. The girl in the souvenir shop had seen her.

  Not her face though. Faking coughs, Sherry had kept a handkerchief over her features. Just in case.

  Off-site, Sherry had doffed the wig. She’d restored her usual thick makeup and put on her flashy jewelry. She’d returned in a limo. That explained Smythe’s panic about the dad with the video camera. He didn’t want anyone guessing at the old lady–Sherry switch.

  One thing didn’t fit. Why bring Gracie to Vancouver? Why have a loud-mouthed kid around? Loudmouths caused trouble.

  And Gracie had caused trouble. Me.

  So why bring her here in the first place?

  Smythe and Sherry were walking ahead of me. I followed them partway around the next turn. They would be by the painting now.

  I listened in.

  Sherry was telling the guard, “You’re done for the day. You can go. Smythe will lock up.”

  Whistling, the guard went behind the portrait to the employee passage and stairs.

  When the sound of his whistling faded, Sherry marched up to the portrait. She studied it.

  She said, “It won’t be long before someone figures out this is a fake. You know what to do?”

  Smythe nodded. “I blame it on the guard. I say I saw him switching the fake portrait for the real one.”

  Sherry’s back was to Smythe. I saw Sherry break into her mean gotcha! smile.

  I didn’t think that tough guard was going to take the blame so easily. Sherry didn’t think so either.

  Sherry and the guard would blame Smythe. After all, Smythe had been the one alone with the real portrait. The guard had been helping a sick old lady. Sherry had been off-site—or so she would claim.

  Smythe’s fingerprints were probably all over the fake portrait. He was going to take the rap, and big-time.

  I wondered how Smythe could be such a sap. I guessed greed had gotten the better of him. He was seeing dollar signs when he should have been seeing danger signs.

  Then I realized it wasn’t just greed. As he watched Sherry, Smythe’s face got the same expression I’d seen outside—sucky and adoring.

  He had a crush on her. A killer crush. He was going to self-destruct over a crush.

  Like Dante Rossetti.

  The painting must still be in the tower. Smythe couldn’t have staggered out to the busy sidewalk with it. Even wrapped up, a package that big would attract attention.

  If I could find the portrait, I would carry it out. And I would want attention. I would yell at the top of my lungs for everyone to look.

  I tried to think what hiding place Smythe would choose. The office by the entrance? Too chancy. Someone might walk in.

  The room where I’d found Gracie? No. I would have seen it.

  Sherry said, “This is where I bid you farewell, Smythe. Gracie is waiting for me in the office. Our cab is coming.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Smythe shuffled his feet. He looked unhappy.

  “I meet my buyer in London in a week. He’ll pay me for Persephone, then smuggle her off to his oh-so-secluded estate. I will send your cut.”

  Smythe started to speak. He choked, cleared his throat. “W-will I ever see you again?”

  “Safer not to,” Sherry said briskly. “Now, Smythe. Make sure no one is around when you leave. We don’t want any witnesses when you spirit our little package out of Death Drop.”

  Spirit out that huge portrait? Lug, heave or portage, even. But spirit out?

  Sherry wouldn’t want to risk taking the painting on the plane. Security might want to examine a package of that size. The plan must be for Smythe to mail or FedEx the portrait to her.

  I couldn’t think about that now. I had to concentrate. Where had Smythe hidden the portrait?

  Smythe and Sherry started down the passage toward me. I ran ahead and ducked into the fake pomegranates.

  As they passed, Smythe checked the time on his cell phone. “Ten to six,” he commented. “Almost closing.”

  At the top of the tower, the last lineup would be waiting for the elevator. The people would be fidgeting. They would be excited and nervous about the big drop.

  While they waited, they’d gawk at the scene beside them. Persephone at cliff’s edge. The eerie, glowing pomegranate in her hand.

  There was also the fake forest, but nobody would look at that. They’d fix their gaze on—

  I drew in my breath so fast I almost inhaled one of the pomegranates. Everyone would fix their gaze on Persephone.

  The fake forest, with its plastic trees and bushes, was the ideal place to stash the portrait!

  I was willing to bet that’s where Smythe had hidden it.

  Once the last passengers had stepped into the elevator, Smythe would retrieve the portrait and smuggle it out.

  I had to get there first.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I pushed through the pomegranates to the employee passage. I ran up the twisting stairs. I felt the metal tube bouncing in my backpack.

  I reached the top of the stairs and another round door. I gripped the handle. I paused. I knew I was at the top of the tower. But I didn’t know where the door came out. It might open right in the elevator guy’s face.

  I could already hear Edwin’s long, gusty sigh. You again.

  I pushed the door open slowly.

  I was at the base of the cliff. In front of me was the circle of black jets. A neon red line ran around the outside of them.

  A sign in front of the red line read, WARNING! STAY OUTSIDE THE CIRCLE. IF FLAMES CATCH ON ANYTHING, FIRE COULD SPREAD.

  Past the circle of jets, in a corner, were piled the spare fake boulders I’d noticed before.

  Above me, the cliff’s edge jutted way out. I knew the Persephone mannequin with the glowing pomegranate was on it.

  The door fell shut behind me. All at once I felt claustrophobic. I wanted to keep the door open.

  I turned, twisted the handle.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  I remembered the panicky scream I’d heard. You idiots! Listen to me—this is not part of the show! I’d been right. The scream wasn’t a special effect. It was Smythe. He’d been here. The door had stuck for him too—when the flames were soaring.

  The flames stayed inside the red circle. He would have been safe. Still, I couldn’t bla
me him for freaking out. But why had he been down here in the first place?

  Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe he hadn’t stashed the portrait on the cliff, among the fake trees.

  Maybe he’d hidden it here.

  I squinted through the dimness. Could the portrait fit between those fake boulders?

  I walked past the circle of jets and the red line around them. Above, I heard Edwin warning people about the elevator’s forty-miles-per-hour drop.

  I reached the boulders. I shone my cell-phone light.

  One of the boulders wasn’t round.

  It was large, rectangular and covered with a black garbage bag.

  The portrait!

  Time to spring you, Persephone. I tore the garbage bag away.

  But there was no Persephone inside. Only the frame.

  The portrait had been removed.

  Smythe had hidden Persephone somewhere else. She wasn’t down here.

  I headed for the door. I remembered the creak and thud I’d heard after Smythe’s scream. Smythe had managed to wrestle the door open. I’d have to do the same.

  My eyes were getting used to the dimness. I noticed something I hadn’t before. At one side, by the wall, a long ladder leaned against the cliff.

  Smythe couldn’t have escaped by the ladder. People in the lineup would have seen him emerge on the cliff.

  But I didn’t care about being seen. I didn’t have to bother forcing the door open. I could climb out of here.

  I was halfway up the ladder when the flames burst upward.

  I’d been expecting them, so I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t scared either. I didn’t panic like Smythe had.

  On the wall beside me a video appeared. It showed the huge, red, reaching hands I’d seen before. From the lineup, it had seemed the hands were right in the flames.

  Yet another thing in this tower that seemed to be happening but wasn’t.

  I reached the cliff. I stepped off the ladder—then stumbled over the edge of a carpet. No, not a carpet. Fake grass. I lurched forward.

  In the lineup, a woman screamed.

  I realized what I must look like from a distance—a Frankenstein-monster figure charging out of the flames.

  “Oh, come on, Ellen,” snapped the woman’s friend. “Quit stalling.” She shoved Ellen into the elevator.

  Edwin looked around to see what had scared the woman. He spotted me.

  I waved.

  “No!” he shouted. He held up his hands to block his view of me. “I’m not seeing you. You’re not here.”

  He pushed onto the elevator with the last people in line. “This dude is clocking out,” he announced.

  The doors closed. The elevator jolted, hung for a moment. The first scare. The false alarm. There were screams, then nervous laughter.

  The elevator plunged. The screams—louder, longer, more terrified—echoed back up to me.

  I pushed through the fake trees. I overturned fake bushes. Where was the portrait?

  “Looking for something?”

  I whipped around. It was Smythe.

  His eyes glittered. He was carrying an ax.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was like something out of a cheesy horror flick. I laughed. “Seriously, Smythe? You’re coming after me with an ax?”

  Smythe licked his teeth. “Get out of here. Now.”

  “On one condition. You get out with me. You can’t trust the manager. I know you have a thing for her, but think about it. She’ll blame you for stealing the painting.”

  Smythe flushed.

  I added, “I highly doubt she’s going to send you your cut. Why would she bother, when you’re the fall guy?”

  Smythe reddened. I’d gotten to him, to his self-doubts. He wasn’t the most confident guy. That’s what Sherry had played on. She’d flattered him, made him first her assistant, then her partner in crime.

  I put on what I hoped was a friendly smile. Maybe I could win him over. Get him to talk.

  And, with my voice-memo app, record what he said.

  I felt for my phone.

  Then I remembered. I’d given the phone to Dieter. Where was Dieter anyway? He was supposed to meet Coach at six.

  Smythe was white-knuckling the ax. Okay, so my charm offensive hadn’t worked. On to plan B. Leave Death Drop. Contact the police—and watch for Smythe to exit. He’d have the portrait with him.

  I held out my hands in a gesture of surrender. “You win. I’ve bothered you enough. So…now I’ll just quietly go.”

  I started away.

  Smythe followed me. “I want to know what you know.”

  “Nothing,” I assured him. “Think of my brain as a large, empty parking lot.”

  He was still holding the ax.

  I reached for the end of the metal mailing tube sticking out of my backpack. I whipped the tube out, brandished it at Smythe. “En garde!”

  He scowled. “That’s Death Drop property.”

  “Technically, this is the property of Gracie Moore,” I told him. “It’s the souvenir Sherry picked out for her. The poster of people crashing into flames. Nice, huh?”

  Smythe froze. He went even paler than usual. A mummy hue.

  He also dropped the ax. It landed blade first in a plastic log, where it stuck.

  I stared at the ax. Then I understood. Smythe hadn’t brought the ax to use on me. He’d planned to chop up the frame. Carrying out the frame might attract attention. In pieces, it wouldn’t. It would be the “little package” Sherry had talked about.

  I turned away. I started down the cliff.

  But Smythe pounded up behind. He gave me a violent shove.

  I went sprawling forward. The whole cliff shook. I scrambled up, ready to belt Smythe.

  Then I saw Persephone wobbling. With the cliff’s edge curving out over the flames, the mannequin would fall right into them.

  I remembered the sign: IF FLAMES CATCH ON ANYTHING, FIRE COULD SPREAD.

  I had to stop Persephone from going over.

  I dropped the metal tube. I slid my backpack off. I shot past Smythe.

  The mannequin was tipping. I made a running dive for it. When I hit the ground, pain flashed through my injured ribs.

  I grabbed the falling mannequin by an ankle. I stopped its fall.

  I sat up, wincing.

  Smythe was coming toward me. His hands were clawlike. They reached out.

  But not for me.

  It was the tube he grabbed.

  I was holding my ribs. I couldn’t move or speak. It hurt even to breathe. I could only watch him, bewildered.

  Why did he care about a metal tube containing a poster?

  He shot me a look of triumph. He saw I was sidelined, couldn’t stop him.

  He started down the cliff. The tube gleamed in his hands.

  The tube…

  My mind rewound to Sherry, picking up the tube I’d left on the trunk. The tube replacing the one I’d dented. The tube I’d put the sketch inside.

  Sherry had shaken the tube. Smiled with satisfaction at the sound she heard inside. Insisted on carrying the tube out of the tower.

  Because it wasn’t a poster she thought was in the tube.

  It was Rossetti’s painting.

  After removing the portrait from its frame, Smythe had rolled it up. He’d put it in a metal mailing tube. He’d given the tube to Sherry—who presented it to Gracie as a souvenir poster.

  That’s why Sherry had brought Gracie to Vancouver. To carry the tube back to London. Nobody would think twice about a kid with a souvenir. Customs officials were on the lookout for terrorists, not little girls with posters.

  When I’d started asking about Gracie, Smythe had pretended not to know anything about her. He and Sherry didn’t want attention drawn to a kid who would soon be carting around a stolen masterpiece.

  Except things hadn’t gone according to plan. Gracie wasn’t carting around the portrait. I was—till just now.

  As soon as I’d said the tube was Gracie’s, Smythe
realized there’d been a switch. He knew this tube contained the painting. That’s why he’d gone such a ghoulish shade of pale.

  I had to get the tube back from Smythe.

  I staggered up. Pain tore at my ribs.

  Smythe reached the bottom of the hill. He jumped over the chain separating the cliff scene from the lineup area. He started down the passageway.

  Then we heard noises. Yelling, footsteps pounding.

  Coach and Dieter ran around the bend. Smythe gaped at them. Swiveling, he sprinted for the elevator. He punched the button. He was going to take the express route down.

  I grabbed my backpack, felt inside for my baseball. I couldn’t chase after Smythe. Not in this much pain. I couldn’t yell out an explanation to Coach and Dieter. That would take too much time.

  But I could throw.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The elevator arrived. The doors opened. Smythe jumped in. He turned around, face half fearful, half smug.

  I raised my baseball for the pitch of my life. I threw.

  Smythe started to raise his free hand. Maybe he thought he could catch the ball. But it was my best shot. It was an air-crusher. It beat time. It stopped for nobody.

  The ball whipped into the elevator. It knocked the tube out of Smythe’s hands.

  The tube flew up, a long, whirling baton. The doors clamped shut on one end of it.

  With the tube in their grip, the doors couldn’t close. The elevator stayed put.

  Struck you out, Smythe.

  But Smythe wasn’t giving up. He pulled at the tube. It began disappearing between the doors.

  “Stop him!” I yelled. “He’s got the painting!”

  Coach shot me a whaaaat? look. But, mad at me or not, he ran.

  Dieter ran faster. Death Drop may have been faster than gravity, but this guy was faster than light. For those few seconds, I could swear he was more blur than flesh.

  Dieter reached the elevator. He gripped the end of the tube. Smythe was stronger—but the Deet slowed him down.

  Coach joined him. He grabbed the tube too. I limped up to them. With three of us on one end of the tug-of-war, we got it out easily.

  Nothing was keeping the doors open now. They shut.

  The elevator gave its false-alarm jolt. It paused. Then it crashed downward. We heard the cartoony Persephone’s scream—followed by an agonized, real-life scream.